Soft
by 0x0xLOVE and WARx0x0
Summary: Her hands had been soft the last time she'd done this. In fact, they'd always been soft. Until now. Now they are hard and foreign, unfamiliar. Strange. They aren't her hands.


**Author's Note: **_Hello! I know it's been a while but, for some reason, being at college - and being bored out of my life - has got me writing again. :) This particular little story was started as a response (or an extension, I suppose) of one of my many, many plotlings from _Lighthouses_ (_Soft_), but ended up being almost a parallel to another (_Touched_). You don't need to read them to read this, but if you wish to, they're there and they've definitely been the inspiration for this little piece. Also, I didn't intend for it to be near as creepy as it is, ha. It just sort of turned out that way. But, I like it. My ever lovely BETA likes it. So here we go. Enjoy! :) _

**Disclaimer:** _I do not own anything involved or concerned with Narnia. _

**Soft**

_By Fig_

He hears her before he sees her. Her steps are quick and quiet as she comes to the open doorway. She pauses there and he has to wonder what the scene must be to her. He, lying in the bed farthest from the window, eyes closed tightly feeling far worse than he has ever felt, here in England at any rate. Although he is certain that even in Narnia he had never felt this awful. His mind wanders to battle wounds and fevers that lasted for days, weeks. This only proves to make him feel worse and he clenches the edge of the blanket tighter, allowing his mind to return to the one standing in the doorway.

He hears her steps as she slowly approaches, but they suddenly seem farther away as he feels himself begin to drift somewhere between reality and dreams. He hears the thin creak as she sits in the chair left idly beside his bed and it pulls him out of that in between place, back to a place where things are all too loud, all too real. He senses her watching him, her hands most certainly wringing in her lap as she wonders what to do, what to say. "You don't have to say anything," He wants to tell her, "Just leave." But his mouth doesn't seem to be working and the only sounds which come out are soft moans.

He feels her touch graze across his shoulder, her fingers hesitant. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, feeling his head throb, hoping that she'll convince herself he's fallen asleep and leave. He hears her shifting things on the side table distractedly – the bowl of water, the pitcher, the book he'd been attempting to read before all of this had happened. The sounds pound through his head and he wants to tell her to stop, that it's too loud. But again, his mouth won't form words.

He hears her sigh quietly, awkwardly.

"Edmund," she whispers.

He pretends not to hear her, pretends he's sleeping.

"Edmund, I know you. I know you're not really sleeping."

She's no longer whispering and his fists clench weakly as he bites down hard on his lip.

"Edmund, I know you're angry with me."

Angry seems like a bit of an understatement at the moment. He doesn't answer.

"Ed…Edmund, please. You're being impossible."

Rage begins shaking him before he can pause to calm himself and he feels her fingertips at his shoulder again, pushing him, pushing him.

"Edmund -" she begins, but he cuts her off suddenly as he gathers whatever strength remains within him to turn to her, eyes hard and cold.

"If you're here to apologize you can stop there," He spits, voice hoarse and dry.

"Edmund, I -"

"No!" His voice strains as he continues, "_No!_ Just forget it! Just forget it! You've forgotten everything else; it shouldn't be too hard for you."

"Edmund!" She attempts, but he quickly drowns her out.

"No, Susan! I really couldn't care less anymore! Just go! _Go!_"

He collapses back onto the pillows, turning his back on her again, eyes squeezing shut, fighting off whatever emotion that conversation had brought on.

"Edmund…"

"Just leave," His voice shakes and for a moment he can almost feel her fingers reaching for him again, but then there is the distinct scrape of chair crossing wood and the sound of her shoes as she rushes out.

He bites back a gasping sob, clenching the blanket once more. Suddenly very cold, he curls in upon himself and works himself quickly to a nightmared sleep.

* * *

When he wakes, he is clammy and damp with sweat, although he is very obviously shaking. He doesn't recall what he'd been dreaming of, only that it'd been perfectly horrible. His face is damp with tears and his breath comes in gasps. And suddenly there's a cool hand on his cheek, and he starts. His eyes close again – a vain attempt to crush himself back into sleep – as the hand gently runs across his forehead, the lines of his face. He bites his lip, drawing blood as he feels the ache in his head begin anew. He does not need to see the owner of the hand to know whom it belongs to. She'd done this many times, before… It had always calmed him then. But it doesn't now – now that everything is so, _different_. He shudders harshly, and her hand reaches to run through his hair. He pulls away, exhaling in one shaking sob.

But her hands find him again, reaching, reaching – insistent in a way they weren't earlier. They comb through his hair, and gently slide across his cheek. It's suddenly too cold, and he finds himself shaking uncontrollably. He wants – he _needs_ – to tell her to stop, that her hands are too cold, but his voice has lost itself again and he simply manages soft, pained moans.

"It's alright, Edmund," she murmurs, and he freezes, breathing suddenly fast and harsh as he grips the blanket covering him in a white-knuckled grip.

He cannot will himself to turn, to face her. He's imagining it is all. He's ill and it's affecting his mind and he's simply _imagining things_. But he cannot deny the gasp which seems to echo round the room as her icy fingers trace along his cheek, the nape of his neck. He whimpers quietly as her voice surrounds him once more.

"Shh," she shushes him, her voice whisper soft, "it's alright, Edmund."

He chokes on a quivering sob as he forces himself to turn and face her, unable to bear it anymore. His eyes remain squeezed tightly shut, desperate to cling to the theory that he is imagining things after all. That things aren't what they seem. That he's simply feverish and his mind is simply playing a nasty, nasty trick on him.

But then her hand suddenly, roughly, grasps his chin. He wonders, fleetingly, which is worse: her gentle, chilling fingers tracing the outline of his face, or the icy, hard grip she holds him in now. He does not wonder long, however, before he is forced to open his eyes and look upon her beautiful, beautiful face. And then, all he can do is cry as her laughter fills the room.

* * *

He wakes suddenly, shaking and unable to breathe. His lungs burn as he gasps, clawing weakly at the blanket covering him in a desperate attempt to return heat to his chilled body. His head aches – if it is worse than it had been earlier, he cannot tell – and warm tears blur what little vision he can manage of the evening sunset shining through his open window. He whimpers piteously, burrowing deeper and deeper in on himself, still trembling, although, he knows, not from the cold winter chill blowing throughout the room.

Footsteps meet his sharpened ears, muffled though they are by the blanket. They are too slow to be her's, too heavy to be Lucy's. There is only one person those footsteps can possibly belong to, and still he starts, breathing very fast indeed, when Peter's hand lands gently on his shoulder.

He does not move, merely clutches the blanket tighter in his fist, pressing it tightly to his mouth, fighting back the scream clawing its way up his throat.

"Edmund," Peter's voice is low, quiet – such a stark contrast to the high, icy voice of his dreams.

He does not know why it doesn't calm him, why suddenly he feels so very out of control.

"Ed," The bed creaks as Peter sits next to him, "I can hear you from down the hall. Are you alright?"

He does not answer, too frightened of what may come out of his mouth should he attempt to open it.

"Edmund," Peter's voice is whisper soft as his hand settles gently on his forehead, estimating the progression of his fever, he knows. He knows this, and still he cannot stifle the cry that immediately bursts from him as he pulls away roughly, head pounding, eyes burning.

He can almost see Peter's deep frown as he reaches for him again, fingers just brushing his shoulder before he's pulled away again. He gives a soft yelp as he swiftly tumbles from the bed, gasping as his shoulder connects with the unforgiving wood floor.

"Aslan's mane, Ed!" He hears Peter exclaim as he rushes around the bed to where he is slowly pulling himself to a sitting position, head spinning, in a crumpled heap on the floor. But the amusement in his brother's tone quickly dies as he takes in his expression. He is not sure how this looks, but he can only assume from the deep, creasing frown which replaces Peter's laughing smile that it is bad. He pulls his knees to his chest, moaning weakly as he burrows his face into them.

Peter reaches for him, but he resists, whimpering incomprehensibly into his kneecaps, too exhausted to move, to speak.

"Ed," Peter's voice is concerned, worried, as he feels his elder brother's hand on his shoulder again. He stifles a sob, biting his lip once more.

"Edmund, talk to me," Peter whispers, hedging silently closer to his shaking form. There is a pause as he shifts uncomfortably, cradling his leadened head in his trembling hands. He inhales deeply, unsteadily.

"She doesn't remember," He whispers at last, without looking up, his voice hoarse and horribly, mortifyingly unsteady.

Peter's hand leaves his shoulder, and he hears him sigh. He raises his head, eyes still burning, breathing still unsteady. Peter is not looking at him.

"She's _changing_, Pete," he manages to force out, his throat as rough as sandpaper, "I don't ... _I can't take it_."

"I know," his elder brother whispers, still refraining from meeting his anguished eyes.

"I don't _want_ her to change, Pete," his voice has gone from unsteady to nearly incomprehensible, as he shudders, pulling himself tighter and tighter, a vain attempt to hold himself together.

"_I need her_," He whispers, voice very broken, before the sobs come once more.

Peter does not speak as he edges closer still, and gathers him in his arms. He does not resist now, the tears coming before he can stifle them, the sobs shaking his thin, fevered frame. Peter cradles him gently, whispering soft reassurances into his hair, but it does no good. It does not help.

"It's alright, Edmund," Peter whispers, his tone soothing, gentle, but the words sound faulty and untrue. He clenches his fists yet again, almost angry as he shuts his eyes tightly. For the person he needs to say those words no longer exists. He knows this. Peter knows this. Lucy will work it out soon enough as well.

Susan Pevensie, Queen Susan the Gentle, has gone. And in her place? A lady of snow and ice, hatred and cold. A woman he recognizes only too well.

_

* * *

There we are! I hope you enjoyed! Feel free to leave reviews, they're lovely as always whether positive or negative. :)_

_Fig_


End file.
